Horseless - For Now

 The day has arrived when I am no longer a horse owner. It's been about a minute now, but I have decided to give up owning horses since I will move to Scotland on a more permanent basis. I can't really see myself paying board for an animal I don't ride, and I don't (at this time) own my own property to keep a horse on, so the prudent, mature, responsible, and overtly logical thing to do was to in fact sell the horse. My last horse was a Missouri Fox Trotter mare named Ava. She was, as many of my animals have been, a rescue from a kill pen here in the state of Oklahoma.  

    My daughter and I have rescued horses (and dogs, cats, pigs, goats, guineas and more) for all of her life, and that timeline bleeds into my own mother's life as well, we are and have always been rescuers.  It makes sense, and it helps the world at large even if it's just a small act of love. Ava was sold to an amazing little girl who at the age of 11, had saved up enough money to not only buy a horse, but to pay for transport, which is an enormous feat for a youngster! I was so very proud to say my last horse (for now) was going to the best home. It's always good when that happens.  Ava was too thin when I rescued her, and she came to me with a baby mule Jenny on her side - - the mule was healthy enough, but it was obvious that the mare had given her all to keep the baby going. 

    Believe me when I say that owning horses is nothing like owning other animals. With dogs and cats you may be able to get away without feeding them on a regular basis, you can literally leave town and expect a friend or family member to drop by and take care of them, but things don't usually work out that way when you own a horse. For starters, horses really don't care if you're sick, have to work later than usual, or if you have no way to come out to feed them - - they want to be fed. Those idiots who allow their animals to graze all day on grass and think that's good enough are in my opinion, not good horse people. In fact, there are so many not-good horse people in the world that I typically say the best thing about horse people is their dogs, and I mean that.  Horse people are the biggest losers on the planet in some cases, and I'm not afraid to say it - - why am I not afraid to say it? I've lived with them, fought with them, observed them, argued with them, called the sheriff on them, and yeah, they don't scare me, I rode a mare. If you're not a horse person you may not understand that last one, but it's true.

    Horses are rather blunt creatures. When they are introduced to each other there is a short time period when they start and go through their natural pecking order immediately. The boss mare steps up, all other horses step to the side to allow her leeway, and the new horse(s) is either accepted or chased off. The new horse, and it doesn't matter what his or her status was before stepping into this pasture, will by nature either accept their new submissive position or face a brutal battle trying to one-up the established Boss Mare. It is what it is, and that's the #1 reason I usually chose to ride a gelding. Geldings cuddle, they want your attention, they seek your affection, and they want to please you. A mare, boss or not, usually has her agenda, and if you don't fit into her schedule that day you may not be riding. It is what it is, which is again, the reason I usually chose to ride a gelding. 

    Stallions are another story altogether, and don't even get me started, you can either establish your dominance in the beginning with the animal, or be controlled by him.  If you know me, you know I carry a crop whip for a reason.  If I am in the pasture with a stallion I carry a crop - - most stallions lack a few brain cells and need to be reminded to stand down. Again, another reason I usually chose to ride a gelding - - no crop needed. I can use that hand to hold my coffee. 

    Selling Ava made sense too; it was the one thing I needed to do before making the final decision to make the move to Scotland.  Placing her in a good home was paramount, and deciding only to help rescue but not take another animal home with me is and was harder than I thought it would be. I rode almost every single day; even when I was heavier. I think I thought riding would help me to lose weight, but it didn't. I was just a casual rider, and I realized last summer that I was still riding as if I was thinner and at some point reality as well as physics set in and I was finding myself thudding the ground a few more times that I really wanted to.  

    I began losing weight, and didn't ride nearly as much as  I had before due to the fact that my body was lying to my brain and I couldn't (or wouldn't) chance being injured to the point that I couldn't sit up and write the book I had to get written, published, promoted, and distributed. This self-publishing gig is tough - - but it doesn't scare me, you guessed it, I rode a mare. If you can say that, you can do just about anything - - she's a chestnut mare too, and again, if you're not a horse person that may not make a lick of sense.

    Going horseless is not an easy thing to do for someone who is as horsey as I am. I think about them, work with them, pay out money for them, drag myself and my daughter all over the state to pick one up before it's shipped to slaughter, and if we're not doing that we're at the barn feeding, watering, bathing, training, working, and otherwise just being with other people's horses.  I could say I understand how an addict feels when they're pulled off the stuff to dry out except I've not really pulled myself out of the barn completely - - I go now just to smell the place; if you aren't a horse person the smell of horse sweat and wet manure may not be the scent you'd prefer in a Yankee candle; but it for me. I would by a dozen of their largest sized candles and keep them burning year round if they made them -- so instead, since I don't have the option of the candle, I have my saddle in my living room sitting on a dirty saddle pad or two; and it seems to help - - some.  That, and I have the crop whip to remind me that there may be some day it could come in handy - - I'll take it with me to Scotland. We'll see who or what I find to use it on there. (They have horses there too, right?)

Foo Foo in The Kitchen

 JUST NOW, I was insulted by a close and personal friend who happens to live in Scotland.  He was laughing of course when he said it, but he was trying desperately to compliment my cooking skills without giving me an actual compliment. He said it was a Scottish thing to do. You can't apparently give an actual compliment; it's not done.  He knows I was trained by soon-to-be gourmet students at the Platt Culinary Cooking Institute (or whatever they are calling it now, that was in 2003 I think); and he was trying so hard to be sweet as basil, and sting like cayenne pepper at the same time.  He failed. I was not insulted by what he called me.  He failed so badly, that I had the pleasure of speaking to his wife for the next 13 minutes explaining to her exactly how to prepare a batch of sweet potatoes with both basil and cayenne pepper. I personally used cinnamon on mine, but he and his sweetie prefer a little southwest kick for their palettes.  Cayenne it is!

    As a General Ed teacher at the culinary school, it was my job and privilege to teach the chefs-to-be how to spell "culinary" and use proper grammar when writing about their experiences in the kitchen.  Upon thinking about such experiences one may or may not have in the kitchen, one of my students ventured into the world of erotic taste-testing for his essay, hoping for an extra credit assignment.  He never asked me if the essay I had assigned actually had literary boundaries. Until he turned in his paper, I had no idea someone may actually need to ask that question - - I decided to not be a prude about it, and because he was trying very hard to come up with new and adventurous adjectives to describe said kitchen-rompery. 

    I accepted his all but overtly sexual prose involving pineapples, warm butter, honey, and yes, root vegetables.  I had NO IDEA at the beginning or middle of the essay that the man was talking about how to prepare a Polynesian recipe for sweet potatoes -- believe me when I say I got lost somewhere between the sheer joy of heating up the pans slowly and purposefully, and rolling the firm, freshly hand-washed tubers in firm butter until the butter melted. Experimenting in the kitchen was obviously something I was in dire need of trying myself, even if I was going to be going it alone for a while. It's not always wise to have too many cooks in the kitchen, things could get really messy really fast.  

    My students assured me that their experiences in the kitchen were mostly bland, mostly mundane, mostly methodical, mostly even boring from time to time, mechanical even, but when it was time to be exciting they knew how to pour on the gravy - - so to speak. I absolutely loved reading this particular essay explaining to me how it was that the sweet basil kept the cayenne pepper at bay long enough for the pineapple to soak into the taste buds and usher in such a fantastic union and fusion of flavor, that no two bites would be exactly the same. I was instructed through the prose to not only try it myself, but to try it with friends, try it with family, try it with strangers if they wanted to be completely shocked, and I wanted to see their faces when they simply take that first bite of impassioned, satisfying, edible delight -- nothing says "Take me into your mouth like pineapple" is the one line I will never forget from Brendon's essay -- I use that line from time to time in my dreams! He also told me once that "Imagination equals creation, and creation equals sensation".  OK, I gave the guy an "A" for the paper; not gonna lie about it.

    Today, oh so many years later,  I am still being a bit foo-foo in my own kitchen, and even if the kitchen is the only place in my house (currently) getting any really raw and appetizing action, I can at least report that my sweet potatoes bring the folks around when I leave the windows open and let the summer breeze cast its allure through the humid air between our apartments.  Today, I had a kind and thoughtful elderly woman (neighbor) ask me to bring her a bit of whatever it was she was smelling coming from my house - - of course I did. How do you say no to such a request? Her smile was enough to warm my gut for weeks to come. I love my people. I'll miss them when I move, and I've missed many of them as they've slipped away to see Jesus over the many many years I've lived and learned where I live. The kitchen here, may only be the size of a round of cheesecake, but if it's cheesecake you desire, I am the one to call on for assistance. I have a lemon-raspberry glaze that will make you - - smile.

    I may be a foo foo, and I may enjoy my spice rack a bit more than others enjoy theirs, but I do know a thing or two about raising expectations while patiently waiting for things to heat up and simmer slowly yet long enough to make a full bodied and pleasurable experience for the mouth. I also know that a good meal is good for the soul as well as for the body.  I can't call myself a gourmet, as I was not fully and professionally trained, but what I learned on the fly, and through private lessons from some of these now exquisite chef-for-real when they were learning the ropes, can take me pretty far in terms of my good friends raising an eyebrow, puckering up a little, and making that face you hope to see them making after just one bite.  I'll take "foo foo" as a title any day - - and most nights in my dreams. That's right, I cook in my dreams too - - and yeah, I may bring a little pineapple to the forefront of my mind when I do.  (Imagination = creation = sensation)

Photo credit: Jude Stringfellow

My Jesus - A Poem

 My Jesus 

 

Grace, grace, God’s grace 

Grace I don’t deserve 

I peer upon the King’s face 

And to know I’m heard 

 

I come to God’s throne 

With bended knee so low 

I can know He’ll always 

Welcome me back Home. 

 

Faith, faith, God’s faith 

Faith abundant, free 

Held within my heart’s heart 

I know that He loves me 

 

Never will I understand  

The price He paid that day 

Why a King would leave His throne 

To end up in the grave. 

 

Erupting from the grips of death 

To put it all to rest 

No other name lives on and on 

The King, my King, Jesus. 

 

Praise, praise, God’s praise 

Blessings I will sing 

Endless days of singing 

Endless love He gave 

 

Jude Stringfellow 

June 5, 2021 

Photo: Simon Dewey artist

Lunch with HoHo The Clown - - Someday Soon!

 Anyone living in Oklahoma from 1958 to 1988 would remember the antics, good natured humor, and gracious smile of our beloved Ho-Ho the Clown.  He was a fixture, and in our family, he was a friend. Ed Birchall was the man behind the makeup, and though I saw him probably as many times without his big red clown nose and goofy smile, as I did with it, he was always "Ho-Ho" never Mr. Birchall. I don't know anyone who called him Mr. Birchall.  Ho-Ho was more than just a silly character created for the kids to see and learn from on television; he visited churches, schools, hospitals, anywhere he could go in order to spread the word of God and minister to those who were in such great need of a spiritual lifting -- and good humor of course.  Today's clowns have nothing on Ho-Ho; he was and is the King of Clowns in my opinion. I absolutely miss him.

    Back in the late 60's and early 70's I remember Ho-Ho coming to our VBS (which stands for Vacation Bible School if you're not in the know!)  Baptists, and I suppose other denominations of churches, host weekly spiritual church camps at their churches every summer, and from either 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. or perhaps 6:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. at night, which happened after moms went to work, you could see and catch hundreds of bratty brats dressed in play clothes on the lawns of the churches drinking grape Kool-Aid and eating generic brand sandwich cookies.  Honestly, to buy actual brand named Oreos cookies would have been out of the budget! My mom volunteered each year to help fix the snacks, teach the kids, sing songs, and be around the church to help others when necessary -- this is the environment I was raised in, and this was the place we could (every year without worrying about it) see Ho-Ho the Clown in PERSON!

    Ed Birchall dressed, "slapped on his face" as he would say, and he drove down the streets of Oklahoma City to all the different churches to perform a little demonstration about lying and truth telling. He had a marvelous demonstration prepared, that when he showed it to you once you understood it for the rest of your life, but you didn't mind if he showed it to you every year, year after year, and every time he showed it you knew the answer but you listened anyway. He was telling you the truth about lying.  Each time he performed the "experiment" or demonstration, he would ask the kids if the had ever told a lie. There wasn't a single time (not once) that any kid ever said they hadn't. We knew. We all knew. We all lied. He knew it too, and he said to us "Well, believe it or not, there have been times when Ho-Ho has lied too; and it's not nice, is it?"  We would dutifully shake our heads, and in some cases we would even lower our faces - knowing we were needing to talk to someone about something right that minute before he went on with his little speech. We knew.

    Well, Ho-Ho would produce a glass container full of ice cold water that he claimed he had just gotten from the kitchen of our very church.  I believe Ed was a Catholic man, but he didn't mind drinking Baptist water from time to time; and he'd take a little drinking glass, pour some of the water out of the container and then take a long slow cool drink - - proving to us that the water was fine! Next he would talk about how truth is good, it cleanses us, it keeps us healthy, it works to help us have a better relationship with others, and that included our relationship with God.  We could always benefit from telling the truth.  He would say that the ice cold wonderful water represented, in this case, TRUTH. 

    Next Ho-Ho pulled out a vile of black ink from his pocket and showed it to us. He said, "this is ink. You use it to write with, you can use it to dye things, but mostly these days it's used to fill up ball point pens and since they have machines to do that, the one I have in my pocket will do another job. It will represent a lie. Just one little vile full of so many lies. That's why it's so black - - lies are dark. Lies aren't to be taken or said lightly, they are deep, dense, thick, and even the little ones are 100% lies, there is no 50% lie, no light lie, no white lie, just lies." He would ask us if we understood.  We did. 

    Ho-Ho then opened the little tiny ink bottle that was only about an inch tall, and he showed us the dropper on the inside of the cap.  He took one drop - - just one, and he put it into the big, tall, container of good, clean, pure, ice water - - TRUTH.  He tainted truth.  He did it deliberately, and he did it with intention. He even told us that he was purposely putting the ink into the water and explained that when we tell a lie we aren't doing it by mistake. We are voluntarily, on purpose, intentionally, with the design of knowing what we are doing - - we understood.  What Ho-Ho did next was amazing.  It was timed, it was calculated, and though we had seen this demonstration before, we still reacted.  About the time he was finishing the demonstration a woman or a man would come into the theatre where we were seated, and wave at us kids, the person would turn to Ho-Ho and say "Say Ho-Ho, is that water? Can I have a drink of it?"  Ho-Ho would turn to us and ask us - - what do you think? Should I pour a cup?

    Without hesitation, without even thinking about it - - every last one of us kids screamed "NO! NO!" with compassion, with powerful conviction in our souls we didn't want that man or woman to take a chance of being poisoned. How can I say this without really upsetting a few of you? How can I say this without making someone "uncomfortable"; let me say it this way -- when you lie about another person you are literally giving the person you lied to (not the one you lied about) a drink of poisoned water - - water you just tainted. Water you just inked. Water you knew was purposely compromised.  The person you lied about may never know you lied about them - - they may find out; but you poisoned a friend when you handed them the glass allowing them to drink your lie.  

    When Ed Birchall passed away in July of 1988 I remember I cried. I remember my friends sitting so close to me at VBS, holding hands praying that we would do our best to never lie again - - Ho-Ho didn't pass away, Ed Birchall passed away - - Ho-Ho is with us. He's always with us, and I will never forget this lesson as long as I live; I try so hard not to purposely poison my friends (or anyone else) and I think about the day I'll have lunch with Ho-Ho the Clown again; I bet he looks a lot more like a very young and healthy Ed than he does an aging gray haired bright-eyed, red-nosed clown, but you know what, that's OK. I think Heaven has enough humor in it to allow a slapping on of a face now and again - - and I'll laugh the same (if not harder) with every joke, every tease, every smile, every wink - - of my friend.

THANK YOU friend, thank you for a life time lesson that I can share. 

Photo: OAB 1988

I Need a Man (from Time to Time)

 This morning was definitely one of those times when I literally broke down and cried out verbally "I need a man right now!"   I will admit, this doesn't happen very often, and when it does you have to understand it's because I've tried everything I could do alone and by myself before resigning to the fact that there are just some things I cannot do correctly by myself. Tensions were mounting under the pressure of it all, emotions were just about to get raw, and I have to tell you, I was sweating with anticipation of what would happen if I couldn't get the damn thing open! I literally stood there in my kitchen holding the canister from the food processer in my hand with it's gray spinning top thing, or maybe it's the bottom, I don't know which it would be since you put it on the top of the canister after you put the food in it, but you turn the thing upside down to place it in the machine itself.  Whatever it is, whichever way would work best, on top or on bottom, I can do both, but what I can't do, and couldn't do by myself was to open the damn thing! It was stuck. 

    Inside the canister was my entire breakfast. It's way past 11 a.m. at this point, an entire hour or so more than I usually wait to eat. I had been fasting like I do, from 6:00 p.m. last evening, so here it is going on over 17 and a half hours since I've eaten and I'm not able to get the canister open to pour out my breakfast! Just saying the words "pour out my breakfast" feels a little anti-climatic doesn't it?  Earlier when I had opened the fridge to see what wonderful and tantalizing foods I could make for myself I realized almost immediately that yesterday, not today, was a cheat day. I had cheated and cheated well. I had gone to Chick-Fil-A and eaten not only their fried breaded chicken sandwich on two pieces of toasted bread (let me say that word again....bread....ahhhh, br-ea-dddd) I had also eaten their wafflely cute potato fry things that don't even require ketchup because they're so adorable; I will be 100% honest, because I try to be 100% honest, I even had sweet honey mustard sauce on my sandwich, and you know it had more than 100 calories in and by itself - - I CHEATED big time. Today would have to be a day of control. Well, control went right out the window when the food processer decided to lock up on me and cause me to fret - - did you hear me? I fretted! I'm not supposed to do that. I am fret-less, ask anyone.

    What do you do when you can't get a jar open and you just have to have, must have, whatever is inside the jar? Well, if you're like me you freak out for a few minutes, cussing at the air, daring any dog to walk into the kitchen to see what the fuss is about; you make really unnecessary and aggravating grunt noises while you apply even more non-flexible and immoveable pressure to the top of the bottom thing and you push, pull, threaten, use a knife to try and pry it off, and you resort to running water over it after beating it against the cabinet a few times. NONE OF THOSE THINGS WORKED.  It was time to admit it, it was time to lay down and just roll over, and say the words "I need a man right now!"  So you know, I'm not anti-man, I really love them actually, I could stare at them all day. I could watch them, I could study them, I could even entertain touching one, but then I'd start giggling and lose full control of myself, and if you know me, you know that control is the one thing I think I have. 

    I live in an apartment complex that I have lived at for more than a 150 years. I have been a resident of this particular complex at least 5 times in my life, and if I think about it I think it's 6 times. I don't know if I can count one of them or not since it was only for a few months. Can you count that? I keep coming back to the complex because it's centrally located, the crazy people who live here are my crazy people, they know me, and they won't think I'm absolutely bonkers if I knock on any of their doors and thrust my food processor canister that is stuck to the machine part that spins it - - right into their face. The problem is that I've lived here at least 150 years and most of the neighbors were here before I arrived. Most of the men here couldn't open a frozen pickle jar with a rubber hand thingy - - so I had to pick my brain for a second.  I needed maintenance. 

    Here, at the complex, though he's also been here 150 years or more, is a man named Miguel who to this day, and I've known him this long, I don't know his last name. I swear it, it's true. I don't know Miguel's last name. I've seen him age, get fat, get thin, raise kids, and change trucks 11 times, but I don't know this man's last name. He is Miguel, and to the kids he's Uncle Miguel, because he's seen me raise my kids too - - I decided that Miguel was the man I needed! I went on the hunt! Luckily for me, Miguel is a creature of habit, and since it was just about his lunch time, he was in the office with the lights turned out, the door locked, and his back turned to the door so he could pretend not to hear you if you peeked through the window and knocked on the door.  Oh, but I've been here a minute, I know people who know people!  There is an apartment that has a back door that actually opens into the office space, and though the tenant is asked not to actually use that door - - they do! Ha!  Success!

    Faced with the words "Miguel, I need a man" the poor soul had no other alternative than to bust a gut laughing, spit out the bit of sandwich he was hoping to swallow, and retort rather rudely and bluntly, "Yes, yes, you do! I've said that for a long time!"  I love Miguel. Have I mentioned that I LOVE Miguel? He's just a nice guy - - I thrust the canister at Miguel.  He took it.  Looking at me with loving and sweet kindness in his deep salty brown eyes he said to me, "Jude, I'm going to take my time with you OK? I want this to be memorable."  I smiled that smile you smile when you don't really want to smile but you're about to lose it and cause snot to come out your nose, so you bite your bottom lip, and just sort of smile - - somewhere in the back of my throat I managed to respond "Thank you, I appreciate that, Miguel. I really do."  After a few elongated seconds of false bravado and he-man muscling, the canister was opened and I was released from the chains of entanglement that held me captive to needing a brutish man to save me.  I was free to drink my breakfast!

    It's times like these, and yes, they are rare, that I have to sit back inside the closet where I pray and remind myself that God never intended for a man to be alone so He made a woman.  Women can be alone and we are often alone in fact. We can go years and years without the need for a close and intimate relationship - but you know there are times we need jars opened, things retrieved from the roofs, and yes, we need someone to tell us we're not always supposed to be in control of everything.  God knew what He was doing when He made the man. They really are useful at times, and I do want one again someday - - but I can think of a few more things I could use him for other than opening jars and setting my food processor free; and when I think about it I allow myself to giggle. 

Photo: Old Fashioned Families 

Moles be Gone!

 I know I talk about Austin Powers a few times in my blogs, bringing him up or some scene from one of the movies, this is one of those times. You see the title "Moles be Gone" and you instantly know where I'm going with this! I went to the dermatologist about six months ago with the most embarrassing of conditions, one which I would not in a million years show photos of - - one reason is because I never took a photo of it, and another reason is its location! (Location! Location! Location!) However, in this case, my case, it was not a mole that was so embarrassing, but a weird, ugly, humungous, fleshy, disgusting, and otherwise not-so-attractive skin tag that grew from nothing into what looked like a bowling ball suspended from my inner thigh - - too much? 

    OK, it was NOT a pretty thing to behold and I could not find a single freaking doctor willing to take care of it during the COVID days. NO ONE was doing what they called "elective" procedures, but I obviously saw it as a monstrosity that needed to be removed for my mental health and well being, as well as my physical health. I will be honest, it never actually stopped me from doing what was necessary to make the days and nights pass, but it was there - teasing me, haunting, and nagging at me - - reminding me that I have zero control over my own body.  Well, I found her! I found the one woman who was willing to help me - - and the event, the actual event, took less than 10 minutes and cost me so much less than expected, and I mean soooo much less.  I could not believe it. 

    Dr. Elizabeth Prater has given me permission to sing her praises, to dance all around her office, (with my mask secured) and to thank her publicly and privately for not only ridding me of the unsightly and terribly upsetting unwelcomed guest, who I really should have named, we were too intimate not be on first name bases.  Dr. Prater allowed me to set the appointment and on the same visit, without even charging me an office visit (no, I can't guarantee that she could or would do the same for you) took the best care of me and she took my skin tag using a little soldering iron thing, she would laugh at me for not knowing the actual name of the tool; and she burned it away!  Then she sent it off to be biopsied, as I am told you have to do that. It was benign, just as she thought it would be. Let me tell you, she was fast, quick-witted, funny, adorable, and just really patient-friendly, not to mention precise, delicate, and professional. 

    Now that I've taken so long to talk about the skin tag maybe I should get on with the subject of this blog! I'm like that, you'll just have to forgive me, it is, after all, my blog.  I was so so so very pleased with Dr. Prater's work that when it came time to do more beautifying I decided to go back to her. I called, set the appointment, went into the office a couple days later, and had more than 30 tiny itty bitty teeny weenie moles removed from my chest using the latest in cryogenic methods. While in the office, in my little backward facing gown so my boobies could be more accessible - - (oh yeah, I forgot to mention, when I get skin tags, moles and otherwise unsightly things, they are in places where there is no sight going on. My chest was invaded by the mole master after having kids - don't ask me how that happened, but before kids there were no moles there, after kids I had something like 30+ little brown moley-moles just decide to show up and stick around. Since they weren't bothering me and I wasn't sharing my anatomy with anyone, it didn't matter, but lately they've been an eye sore since I've lost weight and can see them now...before now they could hide behind the massive orbs hanging around my chest.) I asked Dr. Prater to look at a couple of moles both under my arm and on my face.

    Dr. Prater was so kind to do so without me having to set a second appointment, and she used the little soldering iron thing on the face moles; freezing the one under my arm, which to be honest with you, had been sliced off more than 10 times in the past while I was shaving - - too much? Sorry.  She mentioned that I may actually miss seeing that one since it was obviously an older and more established mole-friend. I didn't name it either. I should. I know, I really should, but I didn't. Be gone! The nurses, both Kesa and Denise also need to have their praises sung too -- Kesa, with her dad-jokes, bright smiling face, and her penchant for cleaning up the areas needed.  Denise with her precision pin-point needle skills that can pierce you clean through to the next world, but she doesn't even hear or listen to you if you say bad words to her during the process - - she just tells you how OK you're going to be, and it's almost over - - always almost over. By the time she says it's almost over, it really is almost over. I'm not going to lie, it hurts like hell to be numbed to have a procedure but we all know that beauty is pain, right? Yeah, I mean, YEAH...love these girls!

    After the moles were taken off my face (one in the crease of my nose, the other on the side, by my right ear) I was literally amazed that the area healed within 24 hours! I can see a little scab forming and I have to say the moles on my chest are all but disappearing -- going going going -- soon to be gone. There are a few that will need to be re-zapped, but for the most part they are literally dissolving! I thought they would fall off, and that makes no sense whatsoever from a medical point of view, but I'm so not medical. I thought I was going to be apologizing to the world for dropping biological materials left and right. I thought maybe I should self quarantine again, and maybe wear two sports bras to catch the moles as they fell off my body! Nope, they just slowly disappear, I don't think they'll leave little freckles where they were, but that's what it looks like right now. I think they're actually going to go away and never ever be seen again - - which reminds me of another Sci-Fi flick I saw and can't get out of my head now. 

    ANYWAY - - there you go, if you have beautifying to do, moles to remove, skin to be treated, even if you wanted to try out Botox, just mosey on down to Dr. Elizabeth Prater's Healthy Skin Dermatology of Oklahoma, located at 13933 Technology Dr suite b, Oklahoma City, OK 73134

Hours: 

Open ⋅ Closes 4PM

Phone: (405) 673-4980  Say hi to Kesa and/or Denise for me!!!

Tell the good doctor where you heard about her, and you just never know what she can do for you. Just be sure and do the little dance of joy with your mask in place. They prefer that!

THANK YOU DR. PRATER!!

 Isn't she just wonderful?  Photo credit: Dr. Prater